


wiping the dirt from his hands as he walks from the grave

by c0rpz3huzb4nd



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom
Genre: < q and schlatt!, Dissociation, Fix-It, Hybrid Jschlatt (Video Blogging RPF), Hybrid Wilbur Soot, LMAO, M/M, Platonic Male/Male Relationships, Post-Manberg Festival on Dream Team SMP (Video Blogging RPF), Tags will be updated, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, WAIT THERES A TAG FOR BOTH OF THOSE??, but no knowledge of it lore is needed to understand what i mean by that lol, dream xd is similar to maturin from it, no beta we die like john john, title from elanor rigby, why is there official dsmp tags but no official fandom tag. what.
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-16 21:47:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29707026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/c0rpz3huzb4nd/pseuds/c0rpz3huzb4nd
Summary: “You gonna sit there and bawl your eyes out all day, Virgo? I really don’t feel like being stuck in a void for Ender-knows how long with you, especially not if you’re gonna be all annoying like that.” Wilbur bares his teeth in a snarl at Schlatt, though the effect is ruined by the fact that he’s been filing down his tusks since he was barely fourteen, and any ounce of intimidation that might come from his Piglin half is drained by the fact that his eyes are still puffy from crying, and he’d long since lost any muscle mass from months spent with barely any nutrition in Pogtopia.Schlatt snorts, showing his own teeth in a mocking growl, sound rumbling in his throat. Wilbur stares him down for a moment before sighing, reaching out far enough to touch Schlatt’s shoulder, pushing himself away in the opposite direction. He floats off for a long moment, before his momentum slows, and he comes to a halt about ten feet away. Schlatt rolls his eyes, crossing his arms and leveling Wilbur with an unimpressed stare.“Listen, Virgo. I don’t know what strings got pulled to get us stuck here together, but if you’re gonna be an ass about it the whole time-” Oh, thisfucker.
Relationships: Alexis | Quackity & Jschlatt, Jschlatt/Wilbur Soot, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Comments: 10
Kudos: 100





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> me: i need to write for living it right  
> me to me: time travel fix it  
> me: no i gotta focus  
> me to me: bro think of how much tension you could give schlatt and wilbur  
> me:  
> me: fuck you got me there

Wilbur is cold. That’s the first thing he notices. He feels like he’s underwater, hair and clothes floating weightlessly around him as he’s enveloped in freezing temperatures. He blinks his eyes open, instinctively holding his breath against the weight pressing against him at all sides. 

  
  


There’s nothing but void surrounding him. He twists, pulling himself upright, and his hair drifts in front of his face. He frowns, brushing it out of the way as he turns his head left and right, searching for any incongruence in the pitch black void. There’s nothing, no sign of movement other than him. 

  
  


Wilbur sighs automatically, then blinks in surprise when water doesn’t rush in to fill his lungs. So he’s not underwater, then. That, though, begs the question of where, exactly, he is, if not in some dark ocean or lake. His old coat billows around him as he spins, fresh blood stains standing out against the stark blackness of his surroundings.

  
  


His head is clear, now. With nothing to focus on other than trying to find a clue hinting towards where he is, guilt comes freely rushing into his mind. He remembers Phil’s yellow eyes boring into him, tears welling up and spilling down his cheeks as Wilbur holds out his own sword in shaking hands. Wilbur can’t remember the last time he’d seen his father cry, he’s honestly not sure if it’s ever happened.

  
  


He feels bad for that. His father is strong, and powerful, but he’d been reduced to tears by Wilbur’s shortcomings, his cowardice. If he’d just killed himself with the sword, instead of forcing Phil to do it, it would’ve been fine, but he was too weak to do it. 

  
  


Something floats in front of his face, and he belatedly realizes he’s crying. The tears shimmer in the light that seems to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once. He curls in on himself, more tears floating up to disappear into the darkness. Guilt and sadness and pain flood his senses, and the sound that cracks out of him is broken, echoing away into the void.

  
  


He isn’t sure how long he stays there until another voice breaks him out of his stupor. It’s sickeningly familiar, and Wilbur’s lip curls automatically at the bored drawl in Schlatt’s voice when he speaks.

  
  


“You gonna sit there and bawl your eyes out all day, Virgo? I really don’t feel like being stuck in a void for Ender-knows how long with  _ you _ , especially not if you’re gonna be all annoying like that.” Wilbur bares his teeth in a snarl at Schlatt, though the effect is ruined by the fact that he’s been filing down his tusks since he was barely fourteen, and any ounce of intimidation that might come from his Piglin half is drained by the fact that his eyes are still puffy from crying, and he’d long since lost any muscle mass from months spent with barely any nutrition in Pogtopia.

  
  


Schlatt snorts, showing his own teeth in a mocking growl, sound rumbling in his throat. Wilbur stares him down for a moment before sighing, reaching out far enough to touch Schlatt’s shoulder, pushing himself away in the opposite direction. He floats off for a long moment, before his momentum slows, and he comes to a halt about ten feet away. Schlatt rolls his eyes, crossing his arms and leveling Wilbur with an unimpressed stare.

  
  


“Listen, Virgo. I don’t know what strings got pulled to get us stuck here together, but if you’re gonna be an  _ ass  _ about it the whole time-” Oh, this  _ fucker _ .

  
  


“I’m an ass?  _ I’m  _ an ass!? You exiled me from my own fucking country! What the fuck happened to all that time we spent together, what happened to the rising worlds, and the fucking tournaments we fought in, side by side? You were so corrupted by power you forgot we were friends, is that what happened!?” Schlatt, to his credit, looks a bit apologetic, but Wilbur isn’t done.

  
  


“Not to mention, you killed Tubbo! Do you know how many hours that kid spent telling me how good you were, how you could still be saved, how he wanted  _ so  _ badly to trust you, and what do you do? You turn around and kill him in the middle of the festival he’d been planning for weeks, Schlatt! He told me him and Quackity were gonna start working together, start helping you get sober, did you know that? He told me all about it, had this elaborate plan laid out to help you get better, but  _ no _ , instead you drank yourself to death in the ruins of the country you just  _ had  _ to have, and now we’re fucking stuck here together! So I’m sorry, Schlatt, if I’m being an ass, but you definitely fucking earned it.” He’s panting now, breath coming out in jagged huffs. 

  
  


Before Schlatt can utter a reply, a sing-song laugh echoes through the space around them. IT’s loud enough that Wilbur and Schlatt both yelp, curling in on themselves and clapping hands over sensitive hybrid ears, though it does little to help. 

  
  


“Good to see you two are getting along.” Wilbur’s head snaps up, whipped back and forth as he tries to place where the voice is coming from, because it sounds like  _ Dream _ . Schlatt has a similar reaction, lashing out blindly at empty air, as if he hopes to achieve something with his messy, uncoordinated swings. Wilbur can’t hold back an eye roll, because he  _ taught  _ Schlatt how to throw a punch, how is his form still so sloppy? The thing that sounds like Dream laughs again.

  
  


“Now, as much as I’d love to see you try and fight me, I’m afraid it would take far too much time for you to realize it’s impossible. No, that can wait for a later date, and this is far too important.” Wilbur frowns, looking around.

  
  


“What’s too important? Keeping us from moving on? Trapping me in this… whatever this place is, with Schlatt?” 

  
  


“No. Neither of you were supposed to die, nor was L’Manburg. It was not written that way, and the script must always be followed. So, you must go back. Fix it.” Oh. Oh, no no no. Wilbur has a sinking feeling he knows what’s going on, and he does  _ not  _ like it.

  
  


“You bastard!” He crows, words acidic and cutting on his tongue. “I chose to die, you fucker. I spent weeks planning that shit, all I wanted was to die, to not have to live anymore, you can’t just take that away from me!” Schlatts eyes lock onto Wilbur as he speaks, and the piglin-hybrid swears something resembling pity flashes across his face, but it’s gone in an instant.

  
  


“Well, too bad, then. We don’t always get what we want. Now, do it again. Follow the script, or I’ll be forced to make you understand  _ just  _ what the consequences of your previous actions would have been.” With that, the blackness around the two of them turns blinding white. Wilbur shouts a curse in Piglin, his native language raspy and guttural on vocal chords that have gone years speaking nothing but Common, before he blacks out.

  
  


-

  
  


The transition from floating weightlessly to standing up is an odd one, and Wilbur stumbles, instinctively throwing a hand out to balance himself. He connects with someone’s shoulder, and Tommy’s familiar voice sounds from beside him, concern tinging his tone. Wilbur doesn’t hear what he says, offering a weak assurance that he’s okay, head frantically whipping around, taking in his surroundings. The festival. Oh, fuck, they’re back at the festival. 

  
  


Wilbur does the only thing he can do, when he’s thrown months into the past, about to be exiled from the country he created, and with no idea how to stop any of it. He grabs Tommy by the hand, and he fucking  _ runs.  _ Behind him, he can hear Schlatt shout his name, and his voice trembles, uncharacteristically soft and confused, but he doesn’t stop, even when Tommy tries to dig his heels in, or Niki tries to call his name. 

  
  


He runs, and runs, dragging Tommy behind him until his instincts lead him to the place he called home for months on end. He almost slams into the hard stone wall before he realizes that the entrance to Pogtopia hasn’t been excavated yet, instead opting to drop to his knees, panting hard as he sucks every ounce of oxygen into his lungs that he can.

  
  


“Wilbur, what the  _ fuck  _ was that!?” Tommy shouts, shoving Wilbur. The brunette goes down easy, sprawling across the forest floor on his back, chest heaving.

  
  


“He was gonna exile us, Tommy. He was- fuck, Tommy, he was gonna fuck it all up. I didn’t know what to do, I just- instincts, I wanted to keep you safe- I’m sorry.” His breaths are still coming hard and fast, and Tommy must realize he’s going into a panic attack even before he does, because suddenly his brother is at his side, hand on his shoulder as he whispers gentle, if confused, reassurances.

  
  


In L’Manburg, Schlatt tries to get the crowd back under control, yellow eyes wide as he frantically tells Tubbo to get Wilbur back, to find him and bring him to L’Manburg.

  
  


A young man with brown hair and a brightly colored hoodie watches from the shadows, eyes locked on the President. A soft frown pulls at his lips, and he checks a pocket watch that glows with an odd light, dozens of hands spinning on its face all at once, indecipherable to anyone but him. Things just got a lot more complicated. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Schlatt begins to make amends. Wilbur dissociates into the fucking stratosphere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> g-d i cant wait for wilbur and schlatt to get brought back just so they can immediately disprove every single piece of lore i want to add in this

Schlatt hasn’t stopped moving for the last hour. His ears are almost flat against his head as he blows through the house, constantly occupying his hands with  _ something _ . He started out by dumping every bottle of alcohol down the sink, recruiting Quackity to help him when he realized that there were too many for him to collect on his own. His husband had been confused, but there was a spark of hope and pride in his eyes as he readily agreed, working with the ram-hybrid to clear everything that was even vaguely alcoholic out of the large house, remaining silent as he poured the bottles down the sink, as if he was afraid to break Schlatt’s concentration.

  
  


It isn’t until the smaller man winces when he reaches for something on the top shelf, hand flying to press against his ribs, that Schlatt remembers yet another one of his fuck-ups. Instinctively, he moves across the kitchen, tugging lightly on the back of Quackity’s jacket. He stops in place immediately, and Schlatt does his best to be gentle and non-threatening with his movements, slowly pulling Quackity’s old jacket off, draping it across the chair behind him. He quickly moves on to his shirt, a simple white button up. Quackity is so still, he’s barely even breathing, the only sign of life being his wide eyes, and the tremble in his hands.

  
  


Schlatt pushes down the tears that threaten to spill down his cheeks at how  _ scared  _ Quackity looks of him, the regret that swells in his chest at what he’s done to his best friend. He gets Quackity’s shirt off, placing it next to his jacket, and begins gently unravelling the bandages keeping his wings pinned tightly to his back. The fear in Quackity’s eyes slowly melts away, replaced by pure confusion. Schlatt doesn’t stop, though, and he doesn’t bother to mask the way his own hands shake.

  
  


The bandages fall discarded to the floor, and Schlatt wants so badly to run his hands through Quackity’s wings, to fix the messy feathers and make them shine like they used to, but allowing someone else to preen your wings is a sign of extreme trust in Avian culture, and Schlatt lost the right to that trust the first time he put his hands on his best friend, the first time he forced him to hide his wings, the first time he let vinegar and vitriol spill from his tongue, spewing venom at the person he loved. 

  
  


Instead, he steps back, hands shaking so hard he has to clench them into tight fists to get them to stop, ducking his head in order to avoid Quackity’s gaze when he speaks.

  
  


“I’m sorry. For  _ everything _ , Q. I don’t- I was so, so horrible to you, and I don’t expect you to forgive me, now or ever- Ender knows I don’t deserve it-, but I really, truly am sorry. I cannot even begin to express how much I  _ hate myself  _ for the shit I did to you, for what I said to you. You are so fucking beautiful, and strong, and the fact that you put up with everything I pulled only cements that fact. You don’t deserve me.” Quackity’s eyes bore into him, Schlatt can feel those sky blue irises burning holes in his skin as he lets his tears fall. The trace hot tracks down his cheeks, dripping down to dampen his shirt as he stands in the middle of their kitchen, remorse laid bare for the other man to see. 

  
  


Schlatt isn’t sure what he expects. Maybe he wants Quackity to explode like he used to, to scream and shout and throw punches. It’s what he deserves, for sure. He’d take every blow Quackity landed, he would fetch the other man a knife to make it easier to slit his throat, if it was what he wanted. Whatever he’s expecting, it sure as hell isn’t Quackity stepping forwards and pulling him into a hug, soft yellow wings folding around him. 

  
  


Schlatt whimpers, slowly falling to his knees on the cold title. Quackity sinks with him, the smaller man not releasing his tight grip in Schlatt’s shirt. 

  
  


“Schlatt, I-'' He pauses, fumbling for words. “I believe you, I mean- I haven’t seen you cry in  _ years _ , but why now? I mean, what happened?” Schlatt sucks in a trembling breath, pulling away just enough to look Quackity in the eyes. 

  
  


“Death tends to give you a new perspective on the shit you did while you were alive.” 

  
  


-

  
  


Tubbo is currently blowing up Wilbur’s communicator. The taller man ignores the device as it buzzes near-constantly, curled on his side in the grass. Tommy’s coat is draped over him like a blanket, and it’s owner is nearby, struggling to start a fire. Wilbur feels a million miles away, every sound coming back to him like it’s in an echo chamber, distorted and quiet. Tommy watches him from across the tiny pile of sticks and moss in front of him, expression concerned, but Wilbur ignores it.

  
  


He ignores everything, really. The fire gets going, but even the wash of warmth across his face does nothing to pull him out of his numb state. At some point, Tommy settles against his side, wrapping his arms around his brother and sharing every ounce of body heat he has, but it doesn’t make a difference.

  
  


Wilbur drifts in and out for a long time, knees pulled up to his chest, only moving when Tommy pushes food or a bottle of water into his hands, obediently downing it before returning to his prior position. His brother is mercifully well acquainted with how to care for him when he gets like this, used to him staying curled in his bed for hours or days on end, uncaring of the world as it moves on around him.

  
  


His hands grip at his chest uselessly, instinctively trying to stop the flow of blood that isn’t there, to staunch the pain that’s nothing but a psychosomatic reaction to a memory that hasn’t happened yet. He has to stand up, has to stop Schlatt from hurting anyone else, has to save Tommy, but he can’t bring himself to uncurl from his fetal position.

  
  


He falls asleep like that, soothed by the steady rise and fall of Tommy’s chest as his younger brother leans against him, quietly typing on his communicator with one hand, quietly combing his fingers through Wilbur’s hair with the other. The motion is soothing, something Wilbur had done to the other boy countless times to bring him down after a nightmare. It’s odd, having it done to him, but he likes it. It’s nice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> q and schlatt are referred to as husbands a few times, and schlatt mentions loving q, but it's all platonic :) they're qpps who got married bc wilbur said they could only pool votes if they were legally married and the madlads actually did it

**Author's Note:**

> sometimes when i'm writing i have to pick the lesser of two evils to focus on. in this case, it was either a time travel schlattbur fic or a hlvrai karlnapity au.


End file.
